Ugh part 3

Am I depressed? I don't think I am. What earthly reason would I have to be? I don't have a hard life. I'm pretty, I'm smart, I'm fairly likable, I have a good family, I'm attending college, I have friends, a boyfriend, even pets, I have talent I suppose– So why the hell should I feel so sad? I don't know what's the matter with me. I'm so privileged, and I don't deserve to feel anything but happy. But I don't feel happy. It's all I can do to go out and buy food for myself and get up in the morning and just live with some modicum of normalcy. I cringe every time someone tries to talk to me, and every time someone wants to Skype or text or anything, I feel my heart sink. If my babe talks to me, I'm happy, and I'm fine with talking to my family too, but why do I want to avoid everyone else? I don't understand. This isn't normal, I'm pretty sure. I feel so horribly out of control. Yes, I'm going about my life as usual, so far, but who's to say I'm going to keep doing so? I can't even make myself finish my assignments until minutes before they're due, and I can't get the energy to eat more than once a day. And then there's the safety pin. I know it's not really self harm, since all I'm doing is scratching, but it's so easy to do it, and I tell myself I'll stop, but then I do it again. It's almost like I want to maintain a scarred body. No, it is like that. Some twisted part of my brain likes the scars, and when they start to fade, I pick right up and do it again. I thought that when I stopped doing that years ago, I'd stopped for good. No matter how shitty I felt, I was sure I could handle it without resorting to scratching. But that didn't pan out, did it? I don't even know why I'm doing this; most people have good reasons, but I honestly am unable to articulate why I do. It's terrible. What if I'm just making up my turmoil for attention? What if I'm just a big fat fake, like in every other area of my life? That would make sense. That would make a lot of sense. But if I'm such a fake, shouldn't I feel fine inside? I shouldn't feel like I'm slowly being sucked into a bottomless pit, should I? Because I do. Every day, I feel like part of me is being consumed, never to return, and I'm so scared. I'm losing myself, and I'm going to lose everyone and everything I care about. I want someone to help, but I don't think anyone can, and besides, if they tried, I'm pretty sure I would push them away. That's how I was wired, I guess, and I'm going to destroy myself, all alone. Part of me wants to actively do that. Destroy myself, I mean. I want to carve deep into my skin, and burn myself all over, and drink until I pass out, and smoke until I cough up my lungs. I want to stop taking care of myself (the little that I do) and die. And then the other part of me wants to keep pushing on, and studying, and eating, and sleeping, and maintaing at least an outwards semblance of sanity. And then there's a little part that wants to stop with the facade and ask someone to take care of me, since I can't seem to do it adequately myself. None of these parts fit with each other, so you can see my dilemma. I can't think of anything that will make me better, so I'm going to keep doing the silly little things that keep me from falling apart at the seams, no matter how unhealthy they are. If watching bad TV shows on Netflix and eating ice cream can get me through another day, hell yes I'm going to do that. If looking forward to trying another flavor of syrup in my coffee gives me the strength to get out of bed, I'm going to try it without shame. Maybe there's no grand, dramatic, fix for anything. Maybe all we can do is keep the chaos back with little gestures until the end. But if I can keep it back with these little things, it must not be real. If my problems were real, would I be able to keep them at bay just by telling myself that there's a new season of Supernatural out, and I need to get through so I can watch it? I'm so pathetic. I can't believe people have put up with me so long. Well, okay, I guess I can believe that, since as far as they know, there's absolutely nothing wrong with me. Which there's really not. Why am I making this all up? Is it for attention? It can't be, if I don't tell anyone. Is it so that I feel important to myself? No, I'm rational enough to see that that will never happen, fake problems or not. Then why? It would be so nice if I could just flip a switch and be better. Then I could focus completely on everyone else, since there's an awful lot of people in my life who could use the care. Let's be real– I don't matter. And it's ridiculous for me to think I do. Maybe if I pretend long enough, I'll turn out fine after all. It's worth a shot, isn't it? I won't crack. I'll act like I'm not picturing blowing my brains out, and the only thought in my head has to do with coordinating my shoes with my skirt. And eventually, I'll start believing that myself. I won't think about death anymore, I'll stop composing suicide notes, and I'll be okay. It's going to happen. Maybe not soon, maybe not for years, maybe not until I'm on my deathbed, but I will find peace someday. And then I'll really and truly be happy, and nothing, not pseudo-depression, not self-loathing, not death, nothing, can ever take that away.